


bread crumbs and flower petals

by kagako



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Getting to Know Each Other, Idiots in Love, M/M, Slow Burn, epilogue added 12/18/18, kind of? lol, lotta is the match maker pretty much, moz is cute and works for nino
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: There’s a beautiful guy working at the flower shop.(Featuring, Lotta playing match maker.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!! i've been working on this fic literally since i finished my last ninojean fic and wow! its been a year! i really wanted to get it done and i'm happy i did, i hope acca13 is still relevant enough LOL. i hope you enjoy it! <3

There’s a beautiful guy working at the flower shop.

Well, it’s not so much that the guy is front cover magazine, hold-the-presses gorgeous—he has simply kept blond hair and clear blue eyes, and as often as Nino has watched, his face seemed damn near unchangeable. The guy intrigued him, for some unknown reason even to Nino himself: perhaps it was the void face (how much would it take to get an honest, loud laugh out of the guy?), or perhaps the clear sky-blue of his eyes (how much would it take for those eyes to wander his way?).

The day Nino first saw the guy smile marked the sixth day he’d been watching him—curiously and harmlessly from afar in the comfort of his favorite café. He sits in the same spot each time: next to the vast window in the corner of the room; and orders the same thing every time: _the usual, please,_ before he proceeds to add enough cream and sugar to make the other patrons cringe. Nino spies cake on the menu, tempting and daunting as always—and although he could easily enough make his own at the bakery—well, he’s been baking enough cakes the past week for nameless and faceless people that, hell, why can’t someone else cater to him and bake him a god damn cake?

Ten minutes pass in which the piece of cake disappears into nothing but crumbs on the plate in front of him as he clicks his pen perhaps a bit too furiously. He’d been sighing for who knows how many minutes (hours? _years?)_ , playing with the crumbs as he scribbled down new recipes to try for the bakery, thinking in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t mind grabbing his camera and taking his motorcycle for a nice, relaxing, lengthy trip—when he happened to look up.

The flower shop across the street has its own vast window, long and horizontal to give passerby’s a look of their sunbathing flowers. Nino watches as the guy waters them, watches as he bends slightly—and of course Nino can’t really read his lips from so far away, but it’s clear to him that Flower Shop Guy is talking to the flowers, and there’s a tug of a smile on the corners of the guy’s lips and _damn_ if that’s not the most endearing thing Nino’s ever seen.

For the next two days, all Nino can take pictures of are flowers and the sun when it’s at its highest peak.

***

There are days he goes to the café for coffee doused in too much cream and way too much sugar only for the Flower Shop Guy to not be seen—and Nino wonders what he does in his spare time, if he’s in college or has more than one job. Other days, the bakery becomes bombarded with orders of _cakescakescakes—two dozen cupcakes, please—do you bake pies as well? May I have four of them, please?_ that Nino just can’t get away for coffee (although there’s a perfectly good coffee pot next to the fridge in his kitchen). He can’t help but wonder if Flower Shop Guy has ever noticed him like Nino noticed him, and there’s this mixed feeling of _god, I hope not,_ and _god, I hope so._

If their roles were reversed, he wasn’t sure how he’d like it if someone was lowkey stalking him from across the street of his probably part-time workplace, slyly taking pictures of him only to swerve to the side to take a picture of a cat, perhaps a robin on the street sign, or upwards to the clouds circling the sun.

Nino is fully aware of his behavior, thank you very much. And he knows he should cut it out, thank you very much. _Yes,_ he’s been through the whole spiel countless times, _thank you very much._ There are times he thinks, _I should just go in and talk to him,_ but then he backs down, uncertain with sweaty palms—“not today,” he murmurs, ducking past the awning and the swaying sign, “not today.”

(“You think it’s possible to like someone you’ve never talked to?” Nino asks the flowers one day, and he feels a bit silly doing it; but when the wind blows lightly and the flowers sway gently, Nino comes to the conclusion that he has the worst crush of the century.)

(And that hits even worse— _crush._ )

Sometimes he sees the guy talking with a younger girl, probably about high school age. _Girlfriend?_ Nino wonders, and although there’s this tug on his heart he can’t help but smile, because he’s learning about the guy. They look too similar, though—their hair the same sunflower hue, the crinkle of their eyes when they share a laugh or a small smile— _but whatever,_ Nino thinks, dismissing it. He pulls his camera out of his bag, deciding that the sun lights Flower Shop Guy’s hair nicely, and after he snaps the picture and lowers his camera, the girl has her head toward him, and their eyes lock.

Blood leaves Nino’s face quite comically, and his eyes widen before he turns away. Messily, he tucks his camera back into his bag and throws the last bit of change he has on him onto the table before scrambling to the restrooms—after all, there was no way he could just stay there, right? There was no way he could just waltz out the _front door_ all nonchalant, when Flower Shop Guy and Little Girly are across the street probably discussing the stalker in the café, right?

“I’m doomed,” Nino mumbles, pacing in tight circles in the tiny restroom. “Oh, fuck, yep, yeah, I’m beyond doomed,” he rambles on, hysterical laughter bubbling in the back of his throat—but he swallows it down, rolling his shoulders before he splashes his face with cold water.

_Get a grip._

He hears the muffled sound of the bell—the front door opening; his heart sinks further into the depths of Hell and Nino hopes that Satan has fun using it as a hockey puck, or whatever sport they prefer down there. The barista greets the customer, and her voice is cheery and soft as she bids a _good afternoon_ back.

Nino doesn’t have to look to know it’s her, Little Girly from across the street, but he slips out of the restroom anyways, back pressed against the wall of the narrow hallway as he peeks around the corner—bright blonde hair, a curious tilt of her head. Nino watches as Little Girly stands in front of his usual table. He watches as she shuffles forward, balancing on the balls of her feet as if to get an aerial view of the table: the change, the empty plate littered with crumbs of double chocolate cake, the mug that still has mid-melted sugar at the bottom because Nino adds too much and forgets to stir.

“Miss, is there anything you need? Did you forget something here?” the barista says, grabbing Little Girly’s attention—and it has her spinning around, it has Nino ducking back into the dim light of the narrow hallway because _fuck, that was close._

“No, not at all,” he hears Little Girly say, and the smile in her voice is clear as day. “May I order something? I’d like two pieces of your double chocolate cake to go, please.”

“Of course.”

A pause.

“Say, are your restrooms down there?”

Nino doesn’t wait to hear the barista’s reply before he’s in the restroom once more, wondering if he’s strong enough to rip the sink from the wall to barricade the door. He hears the click-clack of her heels against the floor, like some sort of ominous foreboding in the horror movie that is currently his life. He’s so caught up in his thoughts, in how much his life sucks, that he almost misses the tap of her knuckles against the door he’s barricading with his own body.

He goes still, but he’s certain the door vibrates with the rapid strum of his heartbeat.

“Hello?” comes her voice, quiet and soft. “Mister Camera Man?” she calls, and Nino can hear the teasing in her voice; he opens his mouth to protest, to deny, but thinks better of it and instead works on calming his breathing. “You’re really not in there?”

Silence hangs over the moment. Nino can almost feel her eyes boring into his back.

Little Girly hums thoughtfully from the other side of the door. “It’s okay,” she says.

Nino thinks, _how is it okay?_

“I’ll come back,” she assures.

He thinks, _God, no, please._

The silence comes back and Nino thinks he might have missed the sounds of her walking away before she speaks again: “You must be completely infatuated with my brother to take so many pictures of him.”

That’s the last thing she says before she walks away, granting Nino the right to breathe again.

***

He doesn’t go back to the café.

How can he, when he was caught red-handed and almost confronted about it? A part of him wants to pass by, to see if she’s sitting at his usual table, waiting for him—but Nino knows he’s making excuses for himself so he can catch a glimpse of the Flower Shop Guy, even if it’s one more time.

Nino huffs, loose flour bombarding his nostrils as he busies himself in front of the counter.

_It’s okay,_ she had said, and Nino still can’t help but wonder, _what in the hell was okay about that?_

This time, when Nino huffs and puffs and growls under his breath, it’s out of annoyance. He glances at the clock on the wall, hating himself for looking because around this time, right now, if not for The Incident, as he calls it in his mind, he’d be at the café in his usual window spot, sugary coffee in hand and eyes on the guy across the street.

He steadies himself, imagines his feet growing roots into the floor of his kitchen, imagines his hands working fast as lightning on decorating this chocolate birthday cake that’s surely meant for a starry-eyed little girl.

But Nino is a weak man, and his feet aren’t capable of growing roots, nor are his hands able to move as fast as lightning.

The defeat in his bones isn’t lost on him as he unties his apron, hanging it on the hook by the door; and now he must steady himself once more for what’s to come. Moz is a loyal part-timer, cheery and careful with his delicately made sweets—but she hates when he shows signs of slacking off, telling him _“there is a perfectly capable coffee pot in the kitchen, there are tons of cakes and pies and éclairs that_ somebody _apparently deemed as unqualified!”_ and he always nods his head, never admitting that he, too, spies her in the supply pantry munching on said cakes and pies and éclairs, sometimes chugging coffee from said perfectly capable coffee pot.

Moz must know by the teasing upturn of his lips, because she always sighs, palms up in defeat as she says, _“please return in one piece, Captain!”_ with a salute to which he returns and assures her that he will, as she says, return in one piece.

Today is a little different from the other days.

His shoulders slump automatically as he pushes past the doorway, avoiding her eyes as she spins around with excitement in her eyes—and almost as quickly, that excitement vanishes.

“Nino?” she murmurs, lips pursed. From the corner of his eye, he can see her expression soften; he can see the small smile and the way her eyes regard him gently. Somehow, he thinks, she must know. “Do you need coffee with too much sugar and a double chocolate cake?”

Nino hums, refusing to admit it aloud as his eyes wandering around the store—a few customers here and there, browsing the display window and happily eating cakes at their table. “Will you be alright for a while?” he asks, because he can’t help but worry.

“Aye, aye,” Moz sing-songs, saluting. “If I have any inquiries, my Captain is off to get supplies!”

“Yes,” Nino laughs, tugging on his jacket; and because he’s grateful, he says, “I’ll bake my famous Moz-Cake for you sometime this week.”

At his words, she squeals excitedly, causing a few patrons to look up in alarm. “Really, Nino?!” she gasps, and when he nods, she twirls in a circle, the child in her alive—and Nino laughs one more time, his smile weary because he swears up and down she soaks up other people’s energy and makes it her own. “Please, Captain, come back in one piece!”

“Aye, aye,” is all Nino says before the bell chimes and the door shuts softly.

***

Immediately, Nino feels bad because he might be breaking a promise.

He paces on the sidewalk, his heartbeat strong in his ears because it’s been—how many days?—and he isn’t sure how to act. His mind comes up with scenarios: his face on WANTED posters with a bounty on his head plastered on every inch of the wall in the café, his usual table warded off by bright yellow police tape, a guard and a dog stationed in front to further ward off onlookers.

Nino hasn’t even made it down the street yet, let alone inside the café.

_Get a grip._

He inhales deeply and lets it go slowly before he starts walking. The desire to glance across the street is terrible; how much he wants to just see Flower Shop Guy for a measly _second_ is excruciating. Nino feels silly, and idiotic, because he doesn’t even know the guy’s name—yet when he remembers asking the flowers, _you think it’s possible to like someone you’ve never talked to,_ and when he remembers the wind: soft and warm, swaying the flowers as if in response… he feels less like an idiot and more like a hopeless teenager with a crush, but he supposes it isn’t far from the truth, minus the teenage part.

“There you are!”

Nino’s resolve is broken, shattered into a million pieces—of course, his life isn’t easy: the bakery is well off, sure, but he needs a new fridge and the oven doesn’t heat as well as it used to; the pantry door is squeaky and sometimes the entrance door sticks, but it isn’t anything that can’t be fixed.

_But this,_ Nino thinks, a shiver running through his body as goose bumps appear, _this is like some sort of deity is cursing me for giggles._

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Little Girly asks, and Nino doesn’t want to turn around. He’s made it this far, sure—but now that she’s here, he isn’t so sure he can survive. Surely, if he turns around, there will be a police officer behind her, cuffs in hand because Nino took pictures of this girl’s unknowing big brother, and surely that deems him as a pervert and a stalker.

_Surely._

“Hey, hey,” Little Girly continues on, and Nino can hear a pout in her voice. “What are you waiting for? Come on, let’s go inside!”

Nino groans, and Little Girly laughs—airy and carefree.

“Aye, aye,” Nino mumbles, taking the last few steps to the café’s door. There was a part of him that couldn’t refuse her, and it’s even weirder to admit that her airy laugh made his lips tug upward.

This time, when he hears the click-clack of her heels against the floor, it isn’t as ominous as before, but it still feels as if he’s walking to a court room. Once they place their orders—“the usual?” to which Nino simply nods to, and he shifts from foot to foot, waiting for Little Girly to finish and follow him—they sit at his usual table.

For him, the silence in unbearable, and he wonders how she feels, why she was so insistent.

“What’s your name?” she asks suddenly, as if reading his thoughts.

He glances up, cursing himself as he does: how can he deny her when her eyes are bright and void of malice?

“Nino.”

“Nino!” she repeats, the smile ever-present on her face. “Nice to meet you, Nino! I’m Lotta.”

“Lotta,” he repeats, and feels the corners of his mouth twitch. Nino bites the insides of his cheeks, says, “Likewise,” instead of the _I’m not sure this is a situation called for a ‘nice to meet you’_ that’s on the tip of his tongue.

Their snacks and drinks arrive, and Nino has to bite back a smile at the herbal tea and strawberry shortcake that sits in front of Lotta—it fits, and something about it calms his nerves. The face Lotta makes when Nino dumps sugar and creamer into his coffee is hilarious—the scrunch of her nose to fight that phantom toothache, the little giggle that slips from her smile; again, he finds himself biting back a smile.

“Don’t forget to stir. At least more than just a couple times, Nino,” Lotta reminds him, and twirls her index finger in the air as if to emphasis her words.

“Yes, yes,” Nino murmurs, and he almost forgets why they’re there—why she’s sitting there, at his usual table in his usual café, drinking tea and eating cake across from him. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but she beats him to it, always a step ahead.

“Why do you come to this café?” Lotta asks. “Surely, your bakery should have everything you can get here, too.”

“I—wait,” Nino says, raising a hand as if to say _stop._ “How do you know I own a bakery?”

Lotta laughs, tilting her head this way and that. He watches her take a drink before she speaks again. “Your bakery is on the way to and from school,” she explains, unsuccessfully fighting a smile. “I walk past it at least two times a day,” Lotta continues, and then in a whisper, she leans forward and says, “Though, your double chocolate cakes are better than this café’s. I mean, don’t get me wrong! Both are good, but… yours taste more… homey, I suppose.”

At the compliment, pride blooms in Nino’s chest. He coughs into a napkin, and says, “thank you.”

Lotta nods, but shows her palms as if to say, _well, come on then._

“I bake for dozens of people every day,” Nino mumbles, shifting in his seat. “I don’t see why I can’t let someone else bake for me.”

Lotta laughs, a bit louder than the first laugh he heard, but still airy and carefree. She leans in again, mischief in her eyes and Nino doesn’t want to hear her next words, but he does anyway: “So it’s not just my brother, then?”

Nino coughs again, surprised, although he shouldn’t have been when the impish glint was clear in her eyes. “Not entirely, I guess.”

She hums, her smile easy and her eyes on the cake. “Jean thinks it’s funny,” Lotta begins, and Nino can’t deny that he’s hopelessly confused before she continues, “that someone could pour loads of sugar into their coffee and forget to stir.”

Nino’s eyes widen. He fights to ignore the heat that creeps up his neck. _Jean,_ Nino thinks, and he’s so focused on (unsuccessfully) fighting a smile that he says nothing—can’t help but wonder, _how much has he noticed of me?_

“He likes sandwich bread,” Lotta begins thoughtfully. “And strawberries! Once, he came home with this _huuuuge_ strawberry, and—wait, sorry, this isn’t story time!” she scolds herself, and Nino can’t help but think she is a bit similar to Moz: making other people’s energy her own. “Have you ever tried making any type of bread before?”

“No,” Nino says, hesitant. Mostly, his specialty was sweets, but perhaps bread wouldn’t be a bad experiment, and it would probably sell well, actually…

Lotta is silent for a moment before her eyes widen. Nino watches as she scrambles around in her bag for—a paper and pen. He watches as she writes what looks like a recipe, and there’s something soothing about her elegant, loopy scrawl. Lotta mumbles under her breath quickly; it only leaves Nino more confused.

“There!” she exclaims, her eyes seeming to sparkle as she slides him the recipe. “This is Jean’s favorite. It’s been a while since we’ve had it. If he had this, I’m sure he’d be happy!”

“Wait—“

“Make his favorite bread and win his heart, Nino!”

Nino chokes on his own saliva, pretends the burn on his face is from lack of oxygen.

“Nino?”

“I don’t think it works that way, Little Girly.”

Lotta huffs, crossing her arms against her chest and says, “Why not? It seems pretty simple to me.”

“I’m just—the guy taking pictures of some other guy, some other _unknowing_ guy, from across the street—“ Nino begins, and in his own words, from his own mouth, it sounds creepy.

Lotta huffs again, her brows drawn. She looks like an angry little princess, and the thought almost has Nino laughing until Lotta’s leaning forward, tilting her head left, toward the window. “But surely, there had to have been a starting point,” she insists, and since Nino’s eyes hadn’t moved, she brings a hand up, pointing out the window.

His eyes follow her finger.

“Oh,” escapes his lips, because there’s Jean—and there isn’t anything too special about the outside scenery: it’s cloudy and looks like it might rain, and the humidity might’ve gone up in the time they spent in the café, but none of that matters right now because to Nino, it’s like he’s looking at breath-taking photograph. He watches as Jean waves hello and good bye to customers, watches as he sweeps the sidewalk and trades the broom and dustpan for a watering can, and—there it is again. Nino can feel himself smiling, can feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward as if his and Jean’s body were on the same wire.

It’s a bit clearer, now—not so much, but Nino can make out a word here or there.

_Hello…well today…grow a bit more…really pretty…_

Jean’s smiling all the while, watering and talking to the flowers.

“Oh, indeed,” comes Lotta’s playful voice.

Nino jumps as if in a trance. When he faces her again, her smile is smug.

“It’s okay,” Lotta says, in the same way she assured him from outside the restroom. “He sees you, too.”

The words has his heart skipping—it seems unrealistic, too movie-like-cliché, but there’s a part of Nino that’s thrilled. He wonders again what Jean has noticed and what he’s seen, but can’t bring himself to ask.

“Then, we’ll meet here?” Lotta continues, finishing the last of her cake. “Or after school, I can come to your bakery.”

Nino thinks, _I’m an idiot,_ but nods nonetheless.

***

When Lotta tastes the trial bread he made, she scrunches up her nose and pushes it away. Nino leans against his oven, arms crossed to hold in his torn heart, because _damn_ that hurts but even Nino knows the first try is always the worst one.

“It needs something else.”

Nino lists off the ingredients, one by one on his fingers. “Is there something you didn’t write down?”

“No,” Lotta insists, shaking her head. She opens her mouth, closes it, and instead repeats: “It needs something else.”

As a baker, he knows what she means, so he keeps the inquiries of _well, what is it?_ to himself.

“I’ll try again,” Nino tells her simply.

***

The fourth try, on an unsurprisingly dead Tuesday afternoon, is better.

“The fluffiness is just right,” Lotta says cheerfully, and there’s something in her eyes that seems nostalgic and yearning, but Nino doesn’t ask.

 Instead, he smiles and thanks her, asks if there’s anything else that needs improvement.

“Something,” she says, her lips twisted in thought. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, though.”

Nino hums, and then sighs as he pushes himself up from his chair and away from the kitchen island. “Enough bread,” Nino says wearily. He snags one of his unqualified éclairs from the designated container, passing it to her on the flowery plate Lotta deemed as her own. “Have some.”

“Thank you.”

The silence is comfortable, now, with Lotta. He doesn’t think of his picture on WANTED posters when he hears the sounds of her heels against the floor, nor does he feel like he’s walking to a court room when she’s trailing behind him. She’s comforting, silly, and humorous in a way that has him fighting a smile and shaking his head.

_(Lotta mentioned it, once._

_“So you fell in love with his smile, Nino?” Lotta teased, fighting a grin. She didn’t win._

_Nino shifted in his seat, dragging a hand down his face because he wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk about something so embarrassing. “It’s weird, I know.”_

_“No!” she exclaimed, eyes bright and serious. “It’s cute, really. Seriously! Like love at first sight!”_

_He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Who does that, nowadays, anyway. This isn’t some romantic comedy.”_

_“It’s nothing so terrible,” Lotta said. “And now, you’re trying to win his love with his most beloved—bread!”_

_Nino shook his head again, turning his back toward her._

_“Don’t think so harshly, Nino.”)_

“I wonder if Jean would know,” Lotta says then, pulling Nino from his thoughts.

Nino all but hums, sweat prickling the back of his neck—nervous. He knows that look on her face, and it mostly never leads to anything good.

“I’ll let Jean know!”

“What?” Nino gasps, spinning toward her full force. The sweat accumulates and he tries to blame it on—well, the reason _was_ his nerves and the sudden spike of his heart. “Don’t, not yet.”

“Nino? Why n—?”

He shakes his head, insistent. “Not yet. It has to be just right.”

Lotta’s surprised expression morphs into a soft smile. “Right. Of course, Nino.”

***

Nino felt settled.

Although his bread still lacked something—something that neither could put their finger on—he still felt settled; settled because he was trying, and the _something_ that was missing was just _one_ something and no more, and that, well, Lotta wouldn’t tell Jean.

Nino thought, if Jean came through his bakery door and asked to try his bread, that’d be the most embarrassing thing, because then his intentions would be pretty obvious.

So when Tuesday turns into Wednesday and Wednesday into Thursday, Nino feels great.

He opens the bakery with no problems, a couple regulars come in for their usuals, and Moz is due to come in at one. The oven beeps through the store, signaling what Nino hopes is the perfect sandwich bread, completed. He lets the fresh bread cool before he prepares it for his and Lotta’s Bread Tasting Meeting (as she calls it) and Nino feels confident.

The day is going well.

So when Jean walks through his door, it puts a halt to the _going well_ part of his day.

“J—Flower Shop Guy,” he mumbles, and then regrets it, because there’s no way Jean hadn’t _not_ heard him with the room full of silence around them.

_He’s here for a restraining order,_ is Nino’s first thought, followed by an echo of _he’s here for a restraining order._

Nino’s breathing is shaky as he gives what he thinks is probably an equally shaky smile—and that’s when he sees the bouquet: carnations surrounded in daffodils and yellow tulips, accompanied by violets.

_Great, a restraining order all wrapped in a fucking bouquet of flowers—at least he’s polite about it._

“Ah,” slips from Jean’s mouth. “Too-Much-Sugar-In-Coffee-Guy,” Jean mumbles, and then clears his throat, and Nino’s sure the lights are playing tricks on him because he’s certain he sees Jean’s ears redden. Nino watches as Jean searches the bouquet (probably for the restraining order), but instead all Jean has in his hand is a card.

_(He wants to me contact his lawyer—)_

“Nino?”

“Yes…?”

“Here,” Jean says, holding out the bouquet. “I’ve come to make this delivery. These are for you.”

Nino’s confused as he takes the bouquet. He feels Jean’s eyes on him as he searches the card, but all that’s written is _to: Nino._ It doesn’t miss his attention that the _from:_ is empty. He feels as though he’s on overdrive—his mind reels and his heart is an uncontrollable rhythm in his chest.

“Thank you,” Nino says slowly, stuck in a trance. He barely hears Jean’s hum of a reply, and suddenly it dons on Nino that Jean is just doing his _job—I’ve come to make this delivery._

For the umpteenth time, Nino feels like an idiot. He clears his throat, opens his mouth only to shut it when Jean speaks after a deep inhale.

“You bake bread?”

Nino shifts from foot to foot, bouquet still in hand and for some reason, it feels as though his hands burn. “I’m trying. It’s not coming out right, though,” he admits, wondering in the back of his mind if that vase is still in the bottom cabinet.

“If you’d like, I can taste it.”

Nino stills, his fidgets gone. He meets Jean’s undisrupted gaze, feels a heat creep up his neck—he coughs needlessly, beckons for Jean to come around the counter. “Sure. Follow me,” Nino says, and can’t help but think, _what a terrible idea._

“Have as much as you’d like. It’s on the counter,” Nino tells him. He watches as Jean turns to where he directed, tearing his eyes away because he should really find that vase, though that’s just his excuse. His senses are hyperaware, terribly so, and Nino wonders that if he just so happens to make a wrong move, if he’ll be electrocuted. He keeps his hands occupied with the bouquet and vase, decides to keep it by the sink for now.

When he turns, he’s greeted by Jean’s thoughtful expression.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s missing something.”

Internally, Nino sighs. “So I’ve been told.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, and the look on his face has Nino thinking he wants to say something, but Jean keeps himself silent. Instead, he takes another bite of the slice in his hand. It’s there that Nino sees the same nostalgic, yearning expression that Lotta had—just like then, Nino doesn’t ask. He stays silent until Jean opens his mouth and says, “Cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon?”

“A dash of cinnamon,” Jean says, nodding, “is what it’s missing.”

“Then, I’ll get started immediately.”

Nino turns toward the cabinets just in time to miss Jean’s next expression. His eyes widen a bit by Nino’s seriousness, and Jean’s confused (not really, that’s a lie: he _knows_ why) as to why the determination on Nino’s face was endearing. Lotta’s talked about this man plenty, enough that there’d been this sting in his chest because _—I knew him first,_ but that wasn’t really the truth: Jean’s just seen him in the café, at the same table each time.

At first, that was all.

A nameless ( _handsome_ , Jean’s mind supplied) guy at the café across the street—but, curious, Jean paid a bit more attention. He’s seen him pour thirty seconds worth of sugar into his coffee, accompanied by three little cups of creamer; he’s seen him stir once, twice, and then forget—and Jean couldn’t help but wonder (with a fought-back smile on his lips and a laugh behind his teeth) how one does that: add so much sugar and forget to stir? Surely, Jean thought, all the sugar wouldn’t dissolve so quickly, so there’d be a mushy mess at the bottom of the mug—but as he watched, the guy (now, Nino) never seemed fazed.

Jean’s watched Nino click and bite his pen, fretting over whatever it was in that notebook that was worth fretting over. He’s seen him with a camera ( _a hobby, maybe,_ Jean had thought, as he swept the sidewalk as Nino stood on the opposite one), and Jean was curious, dipping his thoughts into uneven waters when he heard the faint _click_ of a photograph being taken, when he’d glance up only for the other to direct the lens elsewhere: was Nino’s subject the flowers, or Jean himself?

He thought it was strange, at first, especially when Lotta mentioned it _(that man with the camera, he…?)_ ; but the more Jean watched Nino and came to unknowingly _know_ the guy, the more he wanted to be sweeping the sidewalk when Nino was across the street.

_Is that weird or what,_ Jean thinks.

“Jean?”

The sound of Nino’s voice has him coming back to reality; he wants to ask _how do you know my name?_ because he never remembers giving it to him, but then Jean knows he has a nametag on and that this man is friends with his sister.

Regardless, Jean has this love-hate feeling toward the warmth on his face when Nino says his name.

“Nino?”

Looking at Nino directly, it seems he shares the feeling.

The rush that crawls through Nino’s skin is almost unbearable—but he endures, tries to act collected although he wants to ask Jean to say his name again. “Sorry for, uh, keeping you,” Nino says, then nods toward him, probably indicating his apron. “Are you on the clock?”

Jean hums, shaking his head. “I should be going though.”

“Sorry again, for keeping you.”

“It’s no big deal,” Jean says quietly. He wonders whether or not Nino heard it. “You… mind if I drop by again?”

Nino hums, pretends the sudden heat is from sorting through ingredients too quickly. “Be my guest.”

Jean’s smile is small as he says, “Until then.”

***

Nino thought he was going to die—embarrassment shaded his every movement, to giving back a patron’s change to handing them their sweets; to greeting Moz a good-afternoon to heading back to the kitchen to bake and decorate.

He isn’t angry at Lotta, no. He figured she couldn’t contain her excitement, all the bubbling energy and goodwill overflowing _just_ enough to let slip that, _hey, that man across the street from the flower shop (you know the one!) is trying to bake bread but he doesn’t know what he’s missing and I don’t know either, maybe you could help him?_

And Nino beats himself up just a little, can’t believe how moonstruck he’s acting and how easily a flush spreads across his face like powered sugar to molten chocolate—surely, he muses, he should be too old for that. _But,_ the little voice in the back of his mind (that sounds a bit too much like Lotta) says, _it didn’t turn out too horribly._ Nino couldn’t argue with that, necessarily: his bread would soon be perfect and he’d probably get to see a slowly blossomed smile again.

So when Lotta skips in, all smiles and cheery greetings, everything is fine.

Until there’s a pause in the air.

When Nino turns, questions on his tongue, Lotta beats him to it and asks, “Did my brother come by?” to which Nino raises an eyebrow at and asks, confused, “Didn’t you tell him to?”

“No,” Lotta says forcefully, as if she knew Nino would argue. She points to the bouquet, the corners of her lips twitching almost teasingly. “Those flowers—they are all my brother’s favorites.”

“He was making a delivery,” Nino tells her, and the tone he uses has an underlying meaning: _that’s that._

“I see,” she sing-songs. Nino doesn’t have to see her face to know that she’s smiling her trademark, mischievous smile. “An admirer, Nino?”

Nino laughs dryly, says, “An admirer of my cakes, sure.”

Lotta shuffles beside him, peeking at the icing-flowers he’s boarding a cake with before investigating the real flowers. “I don’t kno _oow,_ ” she says, snatching the card. From the corner of his eye, Nino watches as she flips it this way and that. He almost offers her a magnifying glass.

With an overdramatic sigh, Lotta says, “why would a customer have a reason to leave it anonymous?”

“You really do love to read too much into my life, don’t you?”

“What else happened?” she asks, choosing to ignore his previous statement.

Nino sighs and wonders if it’s too late to build a time machine. “He said I needed cinnamon.”

It’s then that Lotta half gasps, half screams. Nino jerks away from her, wide-eyed and—well, he shouldn’t be too surprised. “That’s it!” she yells, and laughs. “That’s it, that’s it! Cinnamon! Of course! Nino, Nino,” Lotta starts then, and there’s his thought again: how can he deny her when her eyes are full of stars? “Is it done? Have you done it?”

When he tries to fight a smile, he loses. Nino jerks his head as if to beckon her along with him, and she follows excitedly behind in the twenty steps it takes to reach the counter by the oven. Lotta reminds him of a hummingbird, buzzing enthusiastically to the cabinets for her plate, holding it toward Nino with slightly shaky hands.

“There you are, Little Girly.”

Nino watches as she inhales, her eyes becoming as nostalgic as the first few times—but there’s more to it this time, and still yet Nino doesn’t have the heart to ask. “It smells delicious,” Lotta tells him, and as she picks it up, “the fluffiness is as perfect as always,” and then when she takes a bite, her smile is almost blinding and he has to wonder if Jean’s will look like that, too.

“Ni _iino,_ ” she sighs, nodding rapidly. “This is it! The perfect bread!”

“I wouldn’t—“

“It’s perfect! Absolutely perfect!” Lotta insists. “Thank you, Nino.”

He’s confused as to why she’s thanking him—after all, he should be thanking her—but he murmurs a _you’re welcome_ nonetheless.

***

 Jean is already home when Lotta walks through the door.

She isn’t too surprised to see him there, lazing on the couch with a book and an empty plate littered with crumbs—and she wonders if he got into _her_ cake, the one she’d been saving for a reward to herself, but then she remembers eating the last of Jean’s bread a few mornings ago, so the complaint becomes lost on her tongue.

Instead, Lotta sets her bag aside and settles in the chair with far too many cushions and asks, “Did you deliver lots of flowers today, Jean?” Her voice is a pitch higher than usual, as if to egg him on.

Jean flickers his eyes toward her before directing his gaze back to his book. His voice is anticlimactic as he says, “Yes.”

“Really—really, really? Carnations? Daffodils, tulips, violets? Those kinds of flowers?” Lotta inquires. She never was one to beat around the bush.

(And she wonders if it’s her eyes and the light playing tricks on her brain, because she swears there’s the faintest dust of pink on her brother’s cheeks.)

“What about you?” Jean asks. He sets his book aside, straightening up. The words aren’t out of his mouth yet and Lotta already looks a bit sheepish. “Been giving mom’s recipe out lately?”

“I’m sorry,” she says immediately. “Should I not have?”

Jean sighs. “I don’t mind. Just—didn’t expect you to give it to him.”

“To _Nino_?” Lotta laughs, giddy and childish. Her eyes light up as she says, “I tried the finished batch! It’s the perfect bread.”

“Really? That’s good.”

“Yes. Thanks to _somebody,_ he figured out that he was missing cinnamon.”

Jean hums.

“Do you have a crush on him too, Jean?”

At that, he coughs and doesn’t look her in the eye.

_A crush._

“Too?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Lotta roll her eyes. “Surely you aren’t that oblivious.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Jean says, but he knows: it’s a fact he’s painfully aware of; he only knows a handful of things about Nino, yet hearing the guy’s name has Jean fighting a smile.

“You’re lying!”

“I am.”

“See?” Lotta sighs, exasperated, but the smile is there on her lips. “You’re going to try his bread, right?”

“Of course.”

***

When Jean walks into Nino’s bakery a few days later, he’s greeted by a short, cheery girl that reminds him of Lotta. She gives him an up-and-down assessment, and her head tilts just the tiniest bit when she spies the bouquet of flowers: carnations, daffodils, tulips and violets.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here for Nino.”

At his words, she fights a smile as she calls for Nino.

He hears rummaging beyond the door that he knows leads to the kitchen, and there’s a faint smell of vanilla and cinnamon in the air that calms his nerves and thoughts of, _this is a terrible idea, why am I doing this again?_

But it’s too late to back down now.

He wonders when it was that he lost.

(As he was making the bouquet, he had a thought of: _I should quit this._

Jean had almost retracted his hands from the carnations he was about to grab before Lotta’s voice came floating into the front of his mind: _Do you have a crush on him too, Jean?_

It was hard to see it from Nino’s side—but perhaps Lotta was right.

Jean remembers the faint click of a camera, the way the lens slid to a different direction when he happened to look up; he remembers the look in Nino’s eyes when Jean told him he was missing cinnamon, the confusion and brightness in his eyes when Jean handed him his first bouquet. Jean remembers watching him, wondering if Nino purposely only stirred his thirty-seconds worth of sugar twice on purpose, and he remembers the smile that unknowingly spread across his face when he saw Nino standing across the sidewalk, smiling down at a picture on his camera.

It was rare, to see someone smile so fondly.

He wonders how it was for Nino.)

Now, as Nino appears from the kitchen, Jean’s smile is automatic, and it’s hard to tell if it was just the reaction of seeing Nino, or maybe it was because of the streak of flour on Nino’s cheek. Regardless, the blood in Jean’s veins grew warmer.

“Hello.”

The surprise is clear on Nino’s face, but he recovers quickly. “Jean,” he says in greeting, and there’s a shift in his eyes when he sees the bouquet. Nino beckons him with a flick of his wrist. “Come on back.”

He does so, giving a smile and a small nod to the perplexed looking employee behind the counter.

Once the door provides privacy, Jean holds out the bouquet to Nino’s back. There are many things he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, Jean tells him, “I’ve come to make another delivery,” just like the first time.

At that, Nino glances back, a smirk on his lips as he guesses, “and to try some bread?” as he transfers said bread from container onto a plate.

Jean nods, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yes. I am but a simple man, after all.”

Nino laughs as he turns to face Jean. He spreads his hands to take the bouquet, and for a moment Jean wonders how Nino would react if he laced their fingers instead—but he passes along the flowers nonetheless, and he almost misses the look in Nino’s face: thoughtful, confused and perhaps a bit of embarrassment.

There’s a pause in the air around them as Jean makes a beeline toward the plate; surely, if he looked at that expression for long, he’d break and confess all. For a fleeting moment, Jean wonders what’s wrong with him: usually, his tactic was blunt and up-front, but now… He blames it on the fact of the uncertainty of Nino’s feelings—at the thought, Jean wants to laugh: _why am I thinking like a high school girl?_

_(Do you have a crush on him too, Jean?)_

(A _crush_.)

(Jean supposes it isn’t too far from the truth.)

He hears Nino moving behind him—the clink of glass, the running water, the crinkle of the plastic. Jean is content in the moment as he eats the bread Nino undoubtedly perfected. Then, he hears an inhale and a question of, “You like flowers, Jean?”

“They’re pretty,” Jean hums and then asks, “You like to bake?”

“It’s more like, I like sweet stuff,” Nino says. He’s glad that Jean’s still got his back turned. “But baking is…this was my dad’s place. I picked it up from him, more than anything.”

_Was,_ Jean thinks, and understands. He turns, the taste of cinnamon still on his tongue as he praises Nino. “You bake really well, Nino. It’s all delicious.”

A sheepish laugh, and a _thank you, Jean,_ leave Nino’s mouth.

Now, there’s a different sort of daring on Jean’s tongue. “Could you teach me?”

“Huh?”

Immediately, Jean flushes pink, regret forming a wiry ball in the pit of his stomach; and that too is a foreign feeling. “I mean—“

“Yeah,” Nino interrupts him. When Jean looks up, Nino looks sheepish; he runs a hand through his hair and glances about the room before settling his gaze on Jean. “Shop’s closed on Sundays.”

Jean stands a little straighter. “Great,” he says. He feels the corners of his lips twitching upward and does nothing to fight it. “Until then.”

“Until then.”

***

The first Sunday is sixty percent disaster, forty percent non-disaster.

Both of them are hyperaware of one another as well as utterly oblivious. Nino stares too long, Jean stands too close—Nino’s eyes follow the shape of Jean’s lips, Jean’s eyes follow the curl of Nino’s hands. Jean’s mind wanders elsewhere and it leads a loose grip, which ultimately leads to the three plates in his hands slipping onto the floor and shattering. As soon as Jean’s knelt down and reaching to clean his mess, Nino is kneeling down beside him, worriedly buzzing as he catches Jean’s hands in his own.

Nino’s fingers are nimble as he flips Jean’s hands this way and that, inspecting for cuts and scrapes—a bit bony but warm nonetheless, Jean thinks. It tickles when the tips of Nino’s fingers run along his palm, and Jean laughs, wiggling his fingers in innocent protest. He witnesses a flush creep up Nino’s neck, watches as he licks his lips somewhat nervously before muttering an apology.

“It’s okay,” Jean says. He leans in, just a little. “It just tickles, is all.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Nino asks. He doesn’t release Jean’s hands from his own, and Jean wonders if it’s on purpose or due to worry. Jean hums, nodding as he shifts his hands, palm to palm with Nino’s, his fingers curled where the palm connects the index finger to the thumb.

“I’m fine, Nino.”

Even as Nino simply lets an _“ah”_ escape, they stay like that—hands clasped palm to palm and bodies mere inches apart. There’s something there, something indescribable and yet so _readable_ that the both of them have to catch their breath, brains scrambling for a word—any word would work, really, but the embarrassment that goes alongside it seems to block off the correct phrase.

Jean’s hands are warm against his own—soft, gentle in a way that’s a bit confusing but Nino enjoys it, wants more of it. His hands are still lax, perhaps out of surprise and the rush of his thoughts, but soon he’s curling his fingers along the sides of Jean’s pinkie fingers; when he hears a laugh, he glances up.

The look in Jean’s eyes is tender, and there’s something hidden there that tells Nino just how _aware_ he is. It causes Nino’s breath to stutter—and he opens his mouth, something unknown to even himself on his tongue before he shuts it again, because he doesn’t trust that the words on his tongue have been filtered through his brain. He runs his thumb along the side of Jean’s index finger instead, and squeezes the other.

“Hey… Nino,” Jean says then.

“Jean?” he murmurs, unable to look him in the eye. Instead, Nino’s eyes take in the curve of Jean’s bottom lip, the way his jaw clenches and the bob of his Adams apple when he swallows, as if to brace himself for his next words. Nino’s intrigued—wants to lean in a bit closer, wants to hear and watch as words fall from Jean’s lips—but another side of him is nervous, painfully so; he can practically _feel_ sweat building between their hands, can feel his heart beating too fast for his own liking, and as their body heat mingles, his mind becomes blank and yet frantic at the same time.

“Y—You know, I…” Jean stars, slowly and deliberately, just before the smoke detector blares around them.

Snapped back into reality, Nino yanks his hands from Jean’s grasp and scrambles up, wide eyed, to the oven. His hip slams into the corner of the kitchen island, but the pain is nothing compared to the embarrassment that’s thick in his throat. “Sorry, sorry, I got it! I got it!” he yells (to whom, he isn’t sure), as his fingers fumble with the overhead fan. He continues to fumble for the oven mitts, and even as he opens the oven only to drop the burnt batch of bread onto the oventop.

His mind is in shambles; his shoulders shake and his laughter leaves him in short, sharp gasps—surely, whatever deity watching over him wasn’t that cruel? At least, that’s what Nino desperately wants to believe.

“Sorry, Jean,” Nino says. At the silence, he turns, discarding the oven mitts onto the island. “I swear, that usually—“ He’s about to turn the tiny corner of the island, where Jean is still presumably crouched behind, before he’s interrupted: “P—Please, turn around. Don’t look down.”

Nino stops in his tracks, seemingly frozen on the spot. His eyes beg to look down, just for a little peek, but he fights for self control and eventually wins.

“Jean?” he murmurs instead.

What Nino can’t see is Jean crouched and curled into himself, flushed face buried in his hands because of the words that almost so carelessly slipped through his lips. _What was that,_ he thinks, his shoulders shaking because—

 “Jean?” Nino says, a bit more urgently now.

“I—I’m fine,” Jean insists on the lie. “The smell—it just, got to me, I guess. I’m fine, Nino.”

“Oh. Would you, uh—“ a pause here, his nerves and his embarrassment slicing through the link between his brain and his mouth in one fell swoop. “—water? Do you want some water?”

The panic in Nino’s voice helps lessen Jean’s embarrassment. His lips curve into a small smile as he bites back a chuckle. “Yes. Thank you, Nino.”

Once he hears Nino step away, Jean fights to regain his composure. The beat of his heart is calmer, now, but the heat that floods his face seems to stay no matter what he thought of. _(Humid days, smoking the last of his cigarettes and not realizing it until it’s done, did and over with—when Lotta eats the last of his sandwich bread, the worry on Nino’s face when Jean dropped the dishes, and—wait, no, don’t think about Nino.)_ As the fridge opens from a few feet away from him, Jean braces himself. He straightens, silently mocking himself when his eyes automatically seek out Nino, only for their eyes to meet.

The timing was too perfect, embarrassingly so—and Jean has a fleeting thought of, _always is._

Both of them pause in their movements, electricity in the air because their previous close proximity still hung fresh in their minds. The warmth, the lightheartedness, the sensation of feelings so _tender_ and unfamiliar that it practically became a weight crushing against their chests—all of it seems to resurface the moment their eyes meet.

Jean is the first to look away—but his eyes can’t stay away for long; almost immediately, his gaze is settled on Nino once more. “Thank you,” he says again, forcing his voice to stay neutral, because he can’t allow himself to embarrass himself further, can he? Nino says nothing as Jean’s hand extends, as their fingers brush when the bottle of water is taken. Electricity sparks between them and yet they act as if the space between them hadn’t changed.

It’s Nino’s turn to look away, to force his eyes away. “Don’t worry about the mess,” he says, instead of the million other things that’s buzzing on the tip of his tongue.

Jean opens his mouth to protest—he wants to insist, but the embarrassment of what just happened causes him to clamp his mouth shut. He wants to flee, but that would be rude. “If you’re sure,” finally manages to spill from his lips, and although Jean ought to know better, the offer still hangs in the air.

Nino shakes his head. “It’s getting late. Lotta will wonder where you are.”

While Jean cannot argue with that, he wishes he could. “Yeah,” he mumbles instead. “You’re probably right.”

***

When Nino waves good-bye to Jean and locks the door once more, he digs his shoulder blades into the hardness of the wood. It takes a minute, for the rush of embarrassment to resurface, but when it does Nino finds himself crouched into his person, much like how Jean was just half an hour ago. The heat is thick on his face, so much that he wonders if it isn’t a fever catching on—or maybe he might just catch fire?

_I was about to kiss him._

The thought hits hard, perhaps too hard, because the _thud_ that comes from the back of his head hitting the door has him seeing stars. Nino wonders if he could just stay here—surely, come afternoon, everyone would be fine without their sweets, and Moz would be able to fend off the mob of customers demanding cakes and éclairs; surely, the police wouldn’t be able to push the door open due to the fact that, simply, Nino’s corpse would just be too heavy (due to embarrassment, regret, and some other emotion that he’s sure lies within) to move.

It sounds plausible, to Nino.

_I was about to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him._

Nino groans and a thought occurs: his hands feel empty without Jean’s fingers there.

He wonders why that is.

_(He knows why that is.)_

***

When Jean manages to steady his hand enough to unlock the door, he curses himself; once inside, he locks it, and immediately rests his forehead against the doorframe. The shock of his boldness never really left him, so now that he’s blocks away from Nino and the broken plates, and the feel of his hands and the heat of his breath—it comes crashing like the tide to the shore. Hysteria is there, on the edge of his throat, just waiting to come out, but Jean knows better, and wonders how he could physically become a part of the door.

_You know, I…_

He remembers the bubbling in the pit of his stomach when the words were on his tongue. Bittersweet, Jean kind of thanks the alarm for blaring—wonders what he would have done if Nino looked at him differently, but Jean knew that _something_ was there.

It was indescribable, yet so plain to the both of them—and it’s then that a thought becomes apparent: _it’s frightening._

To open himself up to someone to willingly, so honestly, Jean can almost feel the uneasiness blanketing his heart. This isn’t something he’s used to—but then again, he muses that he’s never really looked at anyone quite the way he looks at Nino.

He wonders if it’s the same for Nino.

_Nino._

The mere thought of him makes Jean feel airy.

Then: _I want to kiss him._

And: _It was the same, wasn’t it?_

Nino was warm beside him—inviting, and while his hands were rough, Jean thought it was nice.

He wants to groan, to slam his forehead against the doorframe, but before he can, Lotta’s voice greets his ears: “Are you alright, Jean?”

Startled, Jean turns around to face his sister—and if she notices the flush of his cheeks, or the dilated pupils, she shows nothing. He opens his mouth to speak, but when nothing comes out, he clenches his jaw shut.

“Did it… go poorly?” she asks.

_How is it that you are my match maker?_ Jean wonders, as he takes in the concern on Lotta’s usually mischievous face.

“No.”

“Then, why do you look so gloomy? Like something the cat dragged in, honestly!”

Jean isn’t sure what comes over him, but as the words, “I want to confess to him,” leave his mouth, it sounds so faultless that he can’t help but be a bit shocked himself. The air around the two is still for a moment; as Jean gets over his initial shock, his eyes trail upward to Lotta. “Hey, pick up your jaw.”

Lotta rushes toward him, her arms extended, her hands as claws—the grip she has on Jean’s shoulders is firm, enough to leave marks if her nails were only long enough. “J—J—“ she gasps. Her brows are knitted as she looks as him. “J— _Jean,_ are you certain?” she presses.

Confused, Jean squints down at her. “Weren’t you the one playing match maker?”

Her grip on his shoulders tightens; and once Jean winces the tiniest bit, Lotta continues: “Jean, you have to be sure. Nino, he—he’s head over heels, Jean. He’s been—in _love with you—_ for—for, I don’t know how long! Jean, you can’t break his heart if you are not serious!”

“Oh,” Jean muses, feigning hurt: “you are not worried about me?”

“Idiot!” Lotta laughs, but becomes serious once again: “I know you, and I know Nino. He would be happy enough just looking at you from a distance if it meant you were happy, even if it were with someone else. That is just the kind of stupid, stupid man he is. He would not allow himself to… to possibly… make you afraid of him.”

Jean hums, and after a moment, he brings his sister into a hug—for all her meddling, he loves her.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. But I’m not happy with that.”

***

Nino stays busy for the next few weeks.

He thinks about it, of course: the feel of Jean’s hands, and the look in his eyes that said more than what Nino was hoping for, and the words he was about to say before the alarm went off. Some days, Moz scolds him for getting too distracted, and other days she looks at him with worry, offering him to take a breather at his usual café, and when he declines, the worry in her brow worsens.

Every time the bell above the door rings out, there’s a certain fear in the pit of his stomach, but each time he looks, or peeks from the kitchen doors, there’s never a head of sunflower yellow hair.

He’s expected that, of course—except for the day Lotta comes in. Nino wasn’t sure which he was most scared for: Jean, or Little Girly.

When she comes in he’s swapping out old sweets for new ones by the register, and the shock of bright yellow makes his stomach churn—but this could be worse, he tells himself. “Lotta,” he says in greeting.

“Nino,” Lotta shoots back, and squints at him. He feels small under her gaze, sometimes—like she can control the spin of the world with a flick of her finger, like she could stop his heart with a clap of her hands. Nino knows the thought in itself is absurd, but for a lady of such small stature, Lotta’s eyes give more than what you’d expect.

_Were high school girls always this scary?_ He wonders.

“So, what—“

“Nino,” Lotta interrupts. Nino trails his eyes upward, just in time to watch as she crosses her arms across her chest and tilt her head. “You look like crap.”

The words rip a laugh from Nino’s lips. “I haven’t heard that one in a while,” he says, and turns back toward the kitchen doors.

“Nino!” Lotta calls, and she ignores the beginnings of Moz’s protests as she pushes her way behind the counter to get to the kitchen doors. “Nino!” she yells at his back. Lotta balls her hands into fists as she marches up to him.

Again, to Nino, she looks like an angry little princess.

Yet, he feels that this time is different than the last.

“Lotta—“ he starts, just as Lotta growls, “You’re in love with Jean, _right?!”_

Nino’s sure he could cut the air with a knife. His mouth hangs open as Little Girly glares up at him, her hands balled into fists, her lips set in an angry pout. To have the notion in the air is something he would have never done—he’s thought about it, yes, his crush and the way his chest tightens when Jean is the center of his thoughts; but to have the word said from another’s mouth…

When it becomes clear that Nino won’t speak, Lotta opens her mouth: “Nino, I know you, and I know my brother. If you want him, say something before you break his heart! You two can’t keep dancing around each other, the rest of us are being driven mad!”

Nino feigns hurt as he asks, “You aren’t worried about me?” and he’s a bit confused as to why Lotta half screams, half groans, but he doesn’t ask.

“You heard what I said?” she asks, almost a bit too threateningly. She points at him as though scolding him.

“Ah—yes.”

Lotta nods approvingly, as if her job had been completed—which, in a sense, it has.

***

When Sunday finally comes, Jean feels as though he’s hyperaware to everything. There isn’t anything too particular about the day that deems his fidgetiness—but, perhaps, it’s the internal debate as to whether or not he should go to Nino’s bakery.

_I want to confess to him._

He hadn’t forgotten, of course. A part of him feels prepared, but in the pit of his stomach he feels like the world is on its last tremble. Jean paces back and forth in the kitchen. His mind feels like it’s in shambles. He hasn’t seen Nino since that day, which makes his nerves that much worse.

_I want to confess to him._

He knows he’s lost. Before Jean gives himself the opportunity to change his mind, he slips on his shoes and swears he feels a pair of eyes on him. With a hand on the doorknob, Jean reminds himself he has one more stop to go to before Nino’s.

***

The walk is too short.

Even with the ten minutes he spent in the flower shop, it’s almost as if he’s teleported, much like the superheroes he hears children talk excitedly about. Momentarily, Jean worries about customers, and when he remembers Nino telling him that the bakery is closed on Sundays, the ball in the pit of his stomach somehow grows heavier. Was it him getting weaker and weaker, or did the flowers gain a few pounds?

Jean knocks before he loses his resolve.

He feels as though he should have gone to the flower shop all the way across town.

Jean stands there a few minutes, unable to hear any commotion inside—so he knocks again, louder, and is greeted by a man’s scream and the sound of metal clanging together. Jean can almost imagine it in his head—from stomping out of the kitchen, to stomping through the dining area, to pulling the door open with probably too much force.

What Jean doesn’t expect is for Nino to say, “Listen, lady, the cake you ordered just isn’t ready yet— _oh, Jean—_ “

Jean stands there, taking in Nino—to the white apron that isn’t so white anymore and to what suspiciously looks like dried chocolate in his hair. “Oh. Should I come back?”

It’s Nino’s turn to take in Jean. He sees the bouquet in his hands, the uneasiness of his eyes, and the fact that he has on two different pairs of shoes. It makes him nervous to see just how strung up the other is. “No,” he says. “Come in.”

So Jean does, tentatively, as if the air would catch fire and burn him alive. He’s nervous, uncharacteristically so, and the palms of his hands seem to give the flowers enough moisture to not wilt on the spot. “I thought you were closed on Sundays?” Jean asks, just for something to say. The silence seems to choke him.

Nino doesn’t look back to answer him. The all around feeling this situation gives him is enough to kill him on the spot.

_You’re in love with Jean, right?!_

He hates how Lotta’s voice is there, egging him on.

“Yeah, but this lady had a special order, and it was just so huge that I knew I wouldn’t get it all completed in a business day.”

“Oh.”

Nino pushes himself through the kitchen doors, too scared to see if Jean were actually following him. He doesn’t expect Jean to say anything, so when Jean says, “So, you will be busy for a while,” it confuses him. He sounded— _different;_ his voice was relatively the same, but something about the tone, the hitch in his voice, made Nino furrow his brows.

“What?” he says. Nino turns around to face him. Jean looks on edge: his face is the flushest Nino’s seen it be, and he’s shifting from foot to foot like an anxious child waiting for the toilet. “Jean? Are you okay?”

Instead of speaking, Jean recalls Lotta’s words: _you two can’t keep dancing around each other,_ and simply holds out the bouquet.

As Nino’s heartbeat spikes, he mentally kicks himself and tells himself to calm down—this is Jean’s job, after all. And while a voice that suspiciously sounds like Lotta says, _but he’s in his regular clothes, and there is no apron, and the flower shop closes at two on Sundays and it’s fifteen minutes past two,_ Nino remains in denial.

He loves Jean.

(He wonders why he so desperately clings to denial, and comes to the conclusion that: it’s just who he is.)

_You’re in love with Jean, right?!_

(He thinks, how stupid is that, it’s just who he is?)

If Nino were to say his hands weren’t shaking when he takes the bouquet from Jean’s hands, he’d be lying. His palms sweat, so much that he’s surprised there isn’t a puddle between them. They are the same as always— carnations and daffodils, yellow tulip and violets; they seem well cared for, carefully put together. He sees a card, the same one as usual, and Nino has a strange sense of anxiety in the pit of his stomach that tells him reading that card will be different, from the others.

He chances a glance up a Jean, who looks at Nino as if he were home.

_I’ve been the one sending you these flowers,_ it reads.

Underneath, _Jean._


	2. epilogue: treat me kindly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of cigarettes wakes Nino up.  
> -  
> The aftermath of _bread crumbs and flower petals._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! finally the epi. is out... i hope its long and sweet enough? i didnt want to make it too long or too short so hopefully this is good lol!! I got the meadow idea from the DVD box art! the one with nino laying down and jean smiling in the middle of a field of FLOWERS, unfortunately tho, lotta couldn't join them like in the dvd art because, well, they put her through enough.
> 
> anyways, i love these boys so much but they love each other more.  
> please enjoy, and as always thank you!

_Underneath,_ Jean.

_There was a hitch in his breath: of course, it seemed obvious to him, now, that it had been Jean all along—Lotta told him so, the fact that it was always him delivering the flowers—all of it added up, and yet Nino had simply refused to believe it. It was a mystery in and of itself. He felt like a fool, a love struck, oblivious fool—and he wondered if Jean felt the same._

_He looks up at Jean now—takes in the eyes that won’t meet his own, the little hint of teeth as he bites his bottom lip.  It is painfully obvious: the tightness in his chest, the stampede in the back of his throat. There is pure emotion here, in the shaky breathes and nervous back and forth shifting. Nino isn’t sure what devil overcomes his body as he sets the bouquet aside, definitely as his hands cups Jean’s face, and absolutely when their lips touch._

_Nino wondered what Jean felt like, this close—what kind electricity would seep into his body, and would it settle down and make a home? The two of them can feel it happen: their senses open to each other, their lips brush and their tongues coax, and it isn’t until Jean becomes light in the head that he pushes back._

_“Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to kiss you,” Nino tells him, whole heartedly. He lifts his hands as if cuffs were waiting for him, and his jaw is slack with shock. “I mean, that’s not—I did not—It was—uh, wait, who are you to laugh?”_

_Jean doubles over, laughter spilling out of his lips. It was endearing, the worry on Nino’s face, the sputtering mess he had become. Jean snorts one more time before chancing a glance toward Nino—a mistake, perhaps, since he was greeted by a scowl and a flushed face. The urge to reach over and kiss him again was overwhelming, as well as the temptation to laugh. “I—I’m sorry, Nino.”_

_“You are not.”_

_“I—I didn’t mean to laugh?” Jean chuckles, unbelievable per usual, but Nino is a sucker, thinks it’s adorable._

_“Yeah, I’m sure.”_

_“Just as, you know, you didn’t mean to kiss me.”_

_“That was a lie.”_

_Jean snorts, and shifts closer. The curve of his lip is teasing, and he says, “Nino, you’re a liar? What will I do with you?” Jean brings his hands up toward Nino’s shoulders, pushing him back the tiniest bit, as if to say,_ don’t mess with me.

_Nino huffs out a breath. He bites the insides of his cheeks so he doesn’t laugh out loud, and instead holds his hands out, palms up, in defeat. “Treat me kindly.”_

_“Yeah,” Jean mutters, and leans in. He brushes his lips against Nino’s cheek before bumping his forehead against his shoulder, before slipping his hands against Nino’s forearms. “Yeah.”_

***

The smell of cigarettes wakes Nino up.

It had been a peaceful nap—the sun against his eyelids, the wind rustling the flowers around them, causing the scent to carry all around. Tucked up right next to Jean, it had been perfect. Nino rolls over so his face is perfectly right up against Jean’s thigh, and he says, “That’s so not good for you, Jean.”

All he hears is a snort from above—then an inhale, an exhale: “And surviving on chocolate is?”

Nino buries his face in the fabric of Jean’s pants, and says something along the lines of, _sure it is,_ but it’s muffled and not his best comeback ever, so when Jean hums _huh,_ Nino ignores it.

“I’m so tired,” he whines instead. Nino rolls over, back to the grass, and stretches. He stares at Jean for a moment, feels heat rise up in the pit of his stomach over how the moment looks—the sun against Jean, lighting his hair, shining his eyes; how the breeze ruffles his hair, carries his scent. Just like the first time, Nino finds himself somewhat entranced.

There is something about Jean that makes Nino _wonder._

“What’s that look for?” Jean laughs as he circles a fingertip against Nino’s forehead.

“Just staring.”

Jean furrows his brows, but locks his eyes with Nino’s, anyway.

“I dreamt about you, you know.”

“Are you saying you don’t, always?”

Nino’s laugh is a bit deafening. He seeks out Jean’s hand, twines their fingers together in hopes that they’ll melt in the sunlight, just like that. “Remember when you _confessed_ to me?”

“No.” A blatant lie, they both know, but Nino takes it.

“Oh, no worries,” Nino assures him. He situates his posture, seating himself upright next to Jean. “You came to my bakery. You had a bouquet of flowers. There was a note that told me you were the one sending me all the previous ones. Then, I kissed you.”

“Although, you didn’t mean to, if I recall.”

“Damn. I thought maybe you really didn’t remember.”

“That was a lie,” Jean confesses, failing to look forlorn. He squeezes Nino’s hand as he takes another drag from his cigarette.

“Oh, man,” Nino sighs, a bit too dramatically. He can see the corners of Jean’s lips twitch upward, like he’s trying to will himself _not_ to laugh, _not_ to respond. “You’re a liar, Jean? Of all things?” Nino takes a pause here, swallowing the laughter that creeps up his throat. “What will I do with you?”

Jean laughs, safely putting out his cigarette before he pounces. His hands grab onto Nino’s shoulders as he pushes toward with enough force to knock him over—and of course it isn’t easy on Jean, because Nino’s got his fingers curled into Jean’s belt loops. Jean falls with Nino, perhaps just as easily as the beginning.

Nino buries his face in Jean’s hair, and he smells like cake, like flowers, like somewhere he’d like settle down in.

“Treat me kindly, won’t you?” Jean asks, all awkward smiles and furrowed eyebrows.

The sight is endearing—so much, in fact, that Nino feels the stampede and the heat that it accompanies.

“Yeah,” he says, and hopes he comes off as nonchalant, instead of breathless and timid. Nino brushes his lips against Jean’s, and smiles as he says, _“Yeah.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again, so much! i had a great time writing both parts. thanks to everyone who expressed excitement at the idea of an epilogue ♥


End file.
